Bottom of the Barrel
by abracadaver
Summary: (Pre-Civil War/ slightly AU) When Agent Charlie Parker is assigned to an elite S.H.I.E.L.D kill squad she knows the terms of her assignment. But nothing is as simple as planned and when she sees her mentor again for the first time in 5 years she realizes that unrequited feelings never truly fade. (Please note: This is a Stark/OC OC/Rumlow. Rating may change to M)
1. Chapter 1

There are aspects of a person's physicality that make an impact on us in ways words never could. In the way they stand or in the small mannerisms they make with their hands while conversing. It is these small actions, these characteristics of a person that we pick up on and they tell us more about this person than simply listening could ever show us. Through observation, we can gleam the subtle nature of their character. Although, in some, the messages are smaller or perhaps, even more subtly conveyed. And it takes the more perceptive, skilled individuals to ascertain.

So, for any Strike member, it was Sergeant Rumlow's shoulders that told them everything. Despite the layers of cotton, leather, and Kevlar; it was the tensed, rigidity of his shoulders that conveyed a warning that a dialogue with him could never articulate quite as succinctly. He was dangerous. Like a caged animal, he seemed always coiled and ready to strike, perhaps that's what made him such a irreplaceable Leader of the Strike team. It wasn't just danger he exuded in those shoulders but power. Raw and threatening; begging to be challenged. His subordinates never questioned him and his word was law. And if anyone attempted to argue otherwise, a dangerous flick of those dark brown eyes was usually enough to silence even the most boisterous of recruits. But his blood would rush and hum in his ears, excitement coursing through him, for the thrill of a fight. He was born of conflict and thrived in it. And it was due to this aspect of his nature, that perhaps, at times, he was unaware he exuded, but it kept people at a distance. Sure, for work it was ideal. He thrived on the superior surge of adrenaline he felt at the fear he saw in the face of his enemies. But Agent Rumlow is human and as such, on occasion, rarely, but at times….Agent Brock Rumlow was lonely.

Xxx.

He tapped the glass on the bar light enough to not be rude but loud enough to get the bartender's attention. "Another." A polite nod of his head, casual eye contact towards the man behind the bar, and his eyes where focused back on his hands. The soft sloshing of warm, brown liquid as the glass was placed in front of him was calming. Sighing, Rumlow ran a tanned, scared hand threw his mess of black hair, as the other encircled the glass of whiskey slowly. Absently, he swirled the alcohol around in the glass as the hand in his hair stopped to rest against his forehead. His dark eyes narrowed as he felt the telltale scaring of his partly disfigured face beneath his palm.  
Rumlow thought he'd been right, hail Hydra, he'd really been all in. But then the shit hit the fan, he grimaced at the memory. Shield won and he'd almost been sent to jail. For a moment, in that hospital he'd considered escape and revenge. Dedicating his life to destroying Captain America and the fucking asset that had got away, his fucking Bucky. His grip tightened on the glass reflexively. There was no doubt that the bad blood between him and the Captain was there. At the thought of Rogers, Rumlow immediately pulled the glass whiskey to his mouth and downed it all in one gulp. Smirking despite the pain at the burning sensation trickling down his throat.  
"Another." He murmured again.  
Although, despite his hatred of Rogers, his self preservation had won out. He turned on Hydra. Gave 'the not so dead' Nick Fury all the locations of Hydra bases he knew of in exchange for keeping his job on the Strike team. Which, Fury had, in a way agreed to. With the exception that he was now on a classified, special ops Strike team that worked officially unaffiliated with the U.S and S.H.I.E.L.D when on missions.  
It was Fury's way of keeping Rumlow, a useful asset, around but also simultaneously having the option to kill him should it become necessary.

Xxx.

'Look, I'm going to be frank with you, Agent Rumlow. I don't like you. I think you're a motherfucker who needs to be shot in the head, twice. But you can be useful to Shield. So here's the deal, you stay in line, follow orders, and stay the fuck away from Captain America then you don't get shot in the head. Is that mother fucking clear, shithead?'  
'Wow, you're a real poet, Commander.'  
'Shut up, get out my sight, Rumlow, before I change my mind.'

Xxx.

So here he was. In a bar, in the middle of Los Angeles at 11am awaiting a shit assignment, that would probably get him killed, from an asshole boss, because officially, he doesn't work for Shield. And officially, he's dead too.  
'Fuck, with a face like this I might as well be.' He thought bitterly as he downed, his fifth glass of whiskey today. And he was about to order another when his phone buzzed.  
"Rumlow."  
"Report to base at 1300 hours."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Bring your tac gear and-"  
Brock snapped the phone shut. When did he ever not need full tac gear and Kevlar? They were sending him and his team somewhere, were they didn't expect them to come back, he was expendable.  
"Another." He tapped the glass on the bar one last time. One for the road. Tossing the last glass back he left cash on the bar and grabbed the tac bag that had been sitting at his feet and slung it over his shoulder as he stepped outside. Wincing painfully, Rumlow grappled for his aviators in his tac pants, the sun making his head throb painfully.  
"Fuck me."  
He grumbled harshly, all traces of his lovely buzz disappearing in the cruel Californian heat, as he shoved the shades over his nose.  
"Now, where the fuck did I park?" He asked himself out loud, letting his voice run over the explicative slowly, a mother walked by with her son, glaring reproachfully at him. He laughed.

Xxx.

The thick, humid air flicked viciously at his face, the doors to the helicopter hung open as they descended a few clicks from target. Rumlow gave his team a cursory glance as the helicopter touched down. The men with him, haggard, casting disdainful glances at one another as the grips on their weapons tightened. There was no preamble among his men, they were here for a job, the sooner it was over, the sooner they could say 'fuck off' and head their separate ways till shield called upon them again.

Momentarily, his gaze landed on the newest member of his expendable misfits, a woman. The only female on the entire squad who belonged here as much as much as a fox belongs in a hen house. She was of fairly average height for a woman almost tall for her gender. She had long blonde hair and from what Rumlow could see, she was athletic, so she was no stranger to hard work. But there was a difference between doing laps at a gym and dropping into enemy territory armed to the teeth with lead intent on killing.

He'd fought Fury on her placement with his team before deployment.

XXX.

"She doesn't fucking belong here, I want her off my sqaud." Rumlow commanded, roughly jabbing his finger in the girl's direction, his dark eyes surprisingly focused despite his inebriation.

"Do I look like someone who cares what you want, Sergeant Rumlow?"

Rumlow was about to respond, but Fury cut him off, "No. Now given that what you want and like are about as relevant as the temperature of hell, you can shut the hell up."

Brock clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed behind his sun glasses, his hands rested casually on his hips, despite the rage induced clenching of his biceps and his tense hands, he looked perfectly at ease. But perhaps that was the facade of killers, being able to appear in control, even as that tenuous control was slipping away.

"So, what? I just go into enemy territory with this kid and get her killed? Is that how sheild operates now? This is fucking reckless. She doesn't belong out here." he stated roughly, ignoring the fact that the 'kid' was now intently staring at Rumlow from across the air field. Fury raised an eyebrow at Rumlow's outburst.

"Are you serious? You are questioning the ethics of Shield? You? Hydra's lap dog?"

Brock stared him down, silent, tensed, and using every shred of self control to not just lock his fist to Fury's jaw at that moment. Fury wasn't hiding his contempt for him, Rumlow knew very well how he felt about him and his team.

"Beta squad is deployed for the really dirty, fucked up shit that you can't have the Avengers be involved with. And you want to send me out into the field with a fucking Barbie doll? Fine, but when I come back with only an arm to return to her family, that's on you, Fury." Brock snapped, huffing slightly he removed his glasses to wipe his forearm across his face, it was too fucking hot out here.

"Every person on this Squad is here because their a criminal, Rumlow, you should know that better than anyone, nothing has changed." Fury stated calmly, Brock's face twisted into thoughtful contemplation despite himself, and unconsciously he turned back to look at the young woman. She sat on some cargo boxes, elbows on her knees, her long blonde hair loosely braided, and a pair of flat black sunglasses perched lazily on her nose. She was staring right at him, wearing head to toe black and kevlar, and she was staring, of course he couldn't be certain since she was wearing sun glasses. But he could feel the intensity of her gaze and it wasn't warm.

After moments passed in tense silence, Fury sighed in annoyance, realizing Rumlow wasn't going to back down, despite the very valid point he'd just made, and ran a weathered hand across his temples, clearly tired of this conversation.

"Washington says she's a killer. She's on the team. That's it. End of discussion, got that?"

Rumlow laughed, smirking as he looked down at his boot, kicking up dirt in abject aggravation, "Of course." he quipped, looking back up, he slid his sunglasses back on, smirking darkly. He though, _what do I care, if the bitch dies that won't be on my conscious..._

XXX.

"Move, Move, Move!" He yelled, as one by one his team jumped from the helicopter and ran into the jungle in front of them. The girl was the last to exit and as she was about to jump, Rumlow grabbed her forearm. She paused, her blue eyes narrowed and she waited patiently, despite the sounds of gun shots and screaming in the jungle just yards from them.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Her blue grey eyes scanned his face, Sergeant Rumlow was older, probably close to fifty. The right half of his face was disfigured by intense scarring and his ear almost looked to melt into the side of his head. His bottom lip was cut by a deep scar and for all intents and purposes he looked like a monster. His black hair was an unnaturally dark shade of black, it was like he dipped his hair into a vat of oil. His dark brown eyes were not warm nor were they friendly. They were cold, calculating , and cruel. She had always been a good judge of character, before they'd deployed she had seen all these characteristics in him from across an air field. But what shocked her into momentary silence at his question was the briefest flicker of something else in his eyes.

He shook her arm.

"Hey? You listening? I said, what's your name?" he viciously yelled.

 _There you are, Rumlow._

She thought, there was the heartless traitor of their country that she had been sent to kill.

She effortlessly broke his hold on her arm and then leaned in, his eye twitched at her proximity, her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders as the loose braid she'd had earler that day finally gave way.

"Charlie," she said, she turned to jump off the helicopter, but paused, and turned back to him. "It's good to finally meet you, Sergeant Rumlow."

XXX.

Then she was gone, into the jungle, jamming a magazine into the automated weapon in right hand and unclipping the holster for her knife on her left thigh.

Rumlow stared for a long time. The screams of his men or perhaps their victims was becoming more prolific, along with sound of guns.

"Rumlow? You stayin or going?" the pilot asked.

"Yeah." He jumped off the helicopter, the wind from its blades kicking up his jet black hair into a frenzied mess, as the loose jungle foliage blew around and past him. He unlatched the knife at his thigh and flipped it around his hand, grabbing the grip tightly.

He smirked.

 _Charlie..._

He thought.

XXX.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon as Beta Squad returned, touching down on the covert base tarmac, they ambled off the helicopter slowly by a mixture of stiff muscles, bloodied wounds, and exhaustion. Rumlow stepped off the aircraft last, whilst beginning to remove his bullet proof vest, the hardest part of the mission had been ride back from the mission. They'd flown to just off the north west coast of South America to take out a group of tactically trained radicals. The flight had been grueling, the heat had been almost overwhelming to the point where Brock had felt himself become light headed multiple times.

Unceremoniously he dropped his Tac bag at his feet, unzipping it, and shoving his vest inside. After taking a moment to remove most of his gear he effortlessly slid the bag back over his right shoulder. At the edges of the field were headlights of cars his men had requested to pick them up. Despite protocol, some were the cars of lovers, wives, friends, and family. Most of the men had immediately walked off the field in full gear, wanting to put as much space between themselves and base as humanly possible. He gazed thoughtfully at the cars as many began to reverse from their parking positions and drive off down a long dirt road that lead back into Los Angeles. The few that remained had made their way over to the hanger to his right and the med building beside it.

Sighing heavily he made his way across the field towards the hanger, his bottom lip had busted open from a hit to the face, he'd been careless, one of his targets' had found an opening to get a good punch in, but that was all he'd got. Rumlow licked his lip, the sharp tang of metal exploded on his tongue and he grit his teeth, _Fuck, do I need a drink_ , he thought as he walked by the hanger. He glanced inside, just at the moment to see Charlie pull a Kevlar vest over her head, she was disrobing her own tac gear, and tossing it into the bag at her feet. Rumlow began to turn away, despite his entertaining exchange with her before she left the helicopter, he'd decided to keep his distance. But as she bent down to close her bag he noticed the violent cut along the side of her throat.

"Hey, you going to med bay?"

She stood up, the strap of her bag hanging from her farthest from him, and she raised an eyebrow. Rumlow, unconsciously, repeated the motion, his lips parted slightly in question at her strange response, to what he considered, a normal question.

"Well?" he pried, crossing his arms and looking at her with his head cocked slightly to the side.

"No, I'm fine." She finally stated as she began walking towards the end of the air field base to leave.

"Woah, woah..." he jogged over to cut her off, hands up in warning at the vicious look she was giving him, he huffed and rested his hands on his hips. "Look, that's too close to your artery and its still bleeding, see the doc."

"I can take care of myself," she stated, her expression relaxed and she crossed her arms, her blue eyes annoyed and impatiently glaring, "Sergeant, move."

Rumlow stared at her for a long moment, his dark brown eyes never leaving her's, when suddenly he began to move ever so slightly, and Charlie attempted to move past, reading it as him giving up.

But she didn't know Rumlow.

As she stepped forward, he stepped in, immediately bringing his right fist around for a sucker punch, and in the last second she saw it, and piveted on her toes in an attempt to block and jump back. This was exactly what he'd been hoping for, for as she responded she left her left guard open. Rumlow seized his chance, wrapping his hand around the back of her bicep and pulling her roughly towards him. Effortlessly, he stepped back as he did so, pulling her back flush to his chest, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

"Fuck off!" She grunted, stubbornly she tried to break his hold, against his chest she felt a rumbling sensation, as he laughed. She twitched as she felt the rush of hot breath against her ear.

"Sorry, sweetheart but I've been wrestling since high school, you won't break this hold." he stated smugly, pushing towards an opponent always made them push back, using her momentum against her, he was able to obtain the upper hand. He felt her breathing heavily, but her struggling had ceased, as he held her tightly against him. His eyes flicked back to her neck, the reason he'd made such a show of power, and pressed his hand against the wound on her neck, he was gentle, which surprised even himself, and let it rest against the wound. Sure enough, the light pressure brought more blood bubbling from the laceration to smear hotly through his fingers. His eyes narrowed, he'd been right, the cut was far too close to her artery. And within moments, he let her go and she pushed away, turning quickly around, fists raised - a murderous look twisted her delicate features.

"What was that, you pig?" She snapped, her eyes flicking all over him, reading his body signals, slowly she lowered her fists. But her temper was very visibly still boiling beneath the surface. Rumlow felt a pang of irritation snap through him, grimacing he closed his eyes and ran a hand through sweat soaked, greasy hair. He was so fucking tired. His body was sore, dirty, and so irrevocably spent from the fucking heat that all he wanted to do was crash. Fuck, he'd crash right her and just sleep it off on the floor of the goddamn hanger. His eyes opened lazily and he frowned.

"Fuck it, kid. You wanna die, be my guest." he started to move past her deciding he didn't give a fuck, and ignoring the fact that, that meant he had started to in the first place. Making his way to the medical building he was surprised when he heard the echoing taps of another pair of footsteps behind him.

Rumlow smirked, _Stubborn fucking kid..._ he thought, opening the door he looked back to make a snarky comment. But was silenced when a delicate thumb pressed against his swollen, busted lip and reflexively his eyes widened. Charlie's blonde hair curved loosely around her oval face and her lips were quirked in a cruel smirk.

"What are y-" he started, put she moved two fingers below his lip and hooked her thumb inside his bottom lip, jerking it violently, Rumlow grimaced, but his hand was still on the door knob, he groaned sharply and narrowed his eyes at her.

"Don't you ever touch me again, got that, you piece of shit?" She threatened. Then she let go of his lip and shoved past him, pushing his hand off the door handle and opening it herself.

Rage burned through him as he watched her, his dark brown eyes slits, and the veins that traveled around his arm bulged as his fists tightened. He was going to fucking kill this girl.

"Oh," she paused, leaning back from the other side of the door, her eyes locked with his, holding his burning gaze for a moment before flicking down to rest on his lips. His eyebrows furrowed as the gesture inspired a rarely euphoric sensation surged through his veins from her pointed glance. Then she pointed at his mouth for even more emphasis, "You should really get the doc to look at the lip," her voice teasing as she smirked darkly and continued, "its bleeding pretty badly, Sergeant Rumlow."

And with a click of the door as it shut, she was gone.

Brock slowly pulled his lower lip into his mouth, _Son of bitch_ he thought, it was bleeding again.

XXX.


	3. Chapter 3

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey guys, hope you're all enjoying this story so far. Please leave me your thoughts. I would greatly appreciate any input you can provide! Especially about my characterizations of the characters we know and love from MCU.

XXX.

She could see her breath, puffs of air disappearing as soon as it appeared; the snow beneath her palms was wet, biting cold. She was shaking but her body was burning up, sweating despite the vicious cold of the Ohio winter. Breathing heavily she stared down at her hands, weather worn and stiff from the cold, she gasped as she watched the snow between her fingers begin to run red.

"Dammit." She muttered, gingerly pulling her palms up and rocking onto the balls of her feet for balance. The fall caused one of her palms to split open and she grimaced, the cold air burned her vulnerable skin. She whipped her hand across the side of her jeans, standing up she turned her head to look back into the dark wooded park behind her.

She could still hear their hurried steps in the dark. Gulping down the fear and anxiety bubbling up inside of her, she pulled her red beanie back down over her ears, and started walking faster. Staying to the shadows, her arms crossed tightly over her chest in an attempt to keep warm. She was a young woman of just eighteen years old, her jacket was thin, far too thin to be acceptable in this type of weather, and her grey scarf was tattered and old, perhaps a hand-me-down from another sibling or relative. She was passing through a residential neighborhood; chain link fences marred the landscape, and were as prevalent as the weeds and foreclosure signs smacked onto every other door. Fortunately for her, the city was slow with replacing the street lights, so she found the cover of darkness a welcoming sign, despite the obvious danger the vacant area seemed to exude. But the danger at her heels was far more foreboding than the threat of a bad neighborhood.

She couldn't believe what had happened, one moment she was walking home from her friend's house, stopping at the corner convenience store for soda pop and a snack, and the next, strange men in black combat outfits were storming in and coming right at her. At first she'd considered running home, but something told her these men would have no trouble hurting someone else to get her. And she knew why they were after her, how they'd found out…well she was still trying to figure that out.

"CHARLIE!" a deep voice yelled, cutting through the heavy silence and she froze, but only momentarily, and then ducked quickly into a deep mass on bushes against the vacant street. She saw the telltale sign of flashlights, bobbing this way and that in the distance, men no doubt still in the park searching for her. Then she saw the man who'd yelled her name. He was tall, dressed in all black, and had an eye patch. Her grey blue eyes narrowed.

"Look, Charlie." He spoke frankly. "I'm not here to hurt you but I have a proposition for you if your interested. It won't be easy and you won't be able to stay here with your family. But you could do some real good out there if you'd let us help you."

He let the words hang there, patiently standing in the snowy street, vacant and dilapidated neighborhood. He stood like a man who found comfort in any environment. He was confident and he was also powerful. Though she was young Charlie could observe this obvious facts, she didn't move and she didn't speak. She waited. And so did he, patiently.

XXX.

The sun reflected against the glass walls of the small, utilitarian conference room inside Shield Headquarters, casting bright flecks of sunlight across the faces of those within it. The room was stationed in the center of the command floor, allowing Fury to conduct private meetings while maintaining control and awareness over the operations of Shield. He glanced up from the file in his hand, his eyes slipping over the other occupants of the room, quietly taking in the subdued splendor of his success. Despite the consequences of Project Insight, of the challenges that Shield had faced, notwithstanding bullets to the chest, and yet, here he stood, Shield reinstated and more far reaching and influential than ever before. His gaze went back to the file in hands, his own pride in his success, temporarily forgotten as he stared down into a folder containing the most recent mission of Omega Squad. Director Fury cleared his throat and looked back up to continue, his gaze flicking back and forth between the Avengers sitting at the conference table in front of him.

Xxx.

Steve leaned into his hand, his elbow resting comfortably atop the glass table, and attempted to retain his serious composure as he stifled a yawn.

Captain Rogers and Tony Stark sat opposite one another at the end of the conference room table, feigning attention, as Director Fury debriefed them on a mission that had just transpired in Brazil less than 24 hours ago.

Rogers let his eyes slide over to Tony, attempting to maintain his facade of rapt focus, curious at how his comrade was fairing.

"Typical." He muttered to himself as he observed Tony.

Stark was blatantly texting away on his cellphone. Not sparing Fury a single glance. But he heard Steve's little remark, the corners of his mouth quirking amusedly, and he responded as expected.

"I'm sorry, what was that, princess?" Tony quipped, his eyes never leaving the small screen in his hands.

Fury paused, "Am I boring you, gentlemen?" He asked with thinly veiled sarcasm.

"Not at all," Tony stated sardonically, his deep tenor teasing, as he stood up and slipped his cellphone into his pocket. His brown hair was a mess and he was wearing a grey and black long sleeved under armor shirt and black slacks. He and Steve had just returned from an intel mission that was supposed to have just been a simple conversation, a sharing of minds. But being an Avenger was never that simple. Covered in dust, from a completely unnecessary battle, Tony patted off his forearms and carelessly shook dirt from his hair onto Fury's polished table.

Fury frowned. Knowing exactly where this was going, he'd worked with Steve and Tony enough to tell that Tony was talking more to piss of Steve than to answer a simple, goddamn question.

"But I think it might be past grandpa's bedtime." He nudged a careless thumb in Steve's direction.

Steve laughed and stood up as well, "Says the guy who can't go five minutes with having a piece of technology in his hands."

"Some girls call it a dick, but I like your style, Rogers. Question, do you give all your crushes cute little names for their 'technology', or am I special?"

"You know, if you spent half the time it took you to come up with that vulgar remark, you could actually do some good in this world."

"I'd say all the lives I've saved over the past few years would beg to differ." The casual teasing was gone from Tony's voice as he leaned across the table at Steve, his mouth pressed into a hard line, and his dark eyes challenging Steve to argue with him.

"Keeping count, Tony?"

"No, are you keeping count of all the people your buddy Bucky has killed?"

Steve paused and his eyes narrowed, after a moment, one Tony would've sworn he was about to get punched right in the face, Steve blandly responded,

"You know, this never gets old."

"Well not as old as you."

Fury had enough, slamming a fist on the table, he got both men to look at him. Although one eye was hidden beneath the characteristic eye patch, the other was completely visible, all tells of annoyed bemusement gone from his face.

"Look, we've got more important things to focus on than this. The lives of people are at stake, and you're measuring your dicks?" Fury yelled, a look of anger bewilderment twisting his face in perfectly, understandable outrage.

Stark sucked his teeth and smirked, turning towards him, forgetting the infuriating Captain Rogers, and finally giving Fury his full attention. Steve just turned to look in Fury's direction and remained silent. Director gave both men a leveling look, he was in no mood for bullshit,

"Look, this team I've assembled, this covert squad who worked the Brazil mission, you may run into a few of the members over the next few weeks."

Tony pulled a pair of aviators from his pocket, sliding them on casually, "Yeah, so what's the problem? I imagine we weren't asked to stay behind so you could introduce us to the new kids on the block, do we know anyone on this squad?"

Fury took in a deep breath, his eye flicking between both avengers, and finally settling on Steve.

"Yes."

Rogers rolled his shoulders, a trickle of anxiety sliding up his spine, "who is it?"

Tony stood surprisingly patient and silent as fury gathered his thoughts. He had been avoiding telling Rogers for months now. But there was no getting around it now.

"Sergeant Rumlow and-"

"Excuse me?" Steve half yelled, his blue eyes wild, the face of his once ally and now traitorous ex-comrade flashing in his mind's eye.

"You're kidding, right?" His smile was sardonic,an unsual look on the captain, as he walked around the conference table to stand directly in front of director Fury. "Wasn't the whole point of reestablishing Shield was removing all traces of Hydra? I gotta say, Fury, you got one hell of a way running an organization. This is unbelievable, even for you." 

"Wow," Stark interjected, stepping forward, his hands in his pockets as he looked at Rogers, mock surprise raising his eybrows.

"I don't want to hear it, Stark." Steve quickly said, hand raising up in Tony's direction. But Tony just ignored it and continued, "Remind me, whose best friend in the whole wide world is an Hydra assassin? Sorry maybe my memory is a bit funny."

"This is different, Stark, and you know it." Steve said firmly, his hand dropping, and his blue eyes staring challengingly at Tony, daring him to say something else.

Rolling his eyes Tony turned back to Fury, "You were saying?"

"What?" Director Fury questioned viciously, clearly still enraged by Roger's little diatribe. Tony rolled his hand and said, "You were saying, Sergeant Rumlow and…?"

Fury cleared his throat.

"Right, well along with Sergeant Rumlow there is another member of Omega you may know, Agent Knox."

Stark and Rogers exchanged glances of confusion.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to know who that is?"

"Sorry, Fury, I'm also unacquainted with Agent Knox, did I work with her at the Trisilekon?"

"Sorry, boys, she changed her last name for this mission," Fury continued, both Rogers and Steve shared an equally quizzical glance about the 'mission' comment, clearly both trying to figure out what 'mission' she would be on and why this Agent's last name was changed.

"Agent Charlie Parker," Fury said as he handed Stark a folder. Tony's hand instinctually came out to take the file, the name sounding vaguely familiar, his dark brown brows furrowed in contemplation. But as his eyes fell onto the picture in the file, his eyes widened, and he seemed at a loss for words. Closing the file he absently handed it over to Roger's out stretched hand. Opening the folder, Steve stared at the picture of a young woman with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. She was beautiful and not exactly what he would traditionally consider agent material for a Omega squad. But the qualifications listed under the picture put to bed that preconceived notion. Steve pursued the file quickly, seeing tours spent in Iraq, Afghanistan, and covert missions to Saudi Arabia. Some work in China, but unspecific information, and Brazil as well.

"She's got a history," Steve mumbled. "Seen a lot of bad stuff but I don't know her. Do you Tony?" Steve asked, momentarily forgetting his anger about Rumlow.

Tony was staring at Fury with unveiled contempt.

"Tony?" Steve questioned, his eyes flicking back from the director to his fellow avenger.

Finally Tony broke eye contact with his and walked back to the table, grabbing his jacket and walking toward the door.

"I won't change my mind, Stark." Fury stated as Tony was about to exit.

Tony stared down at his hand, resting on the door handle, quiet rage seeping off him in waves, and Steve thought for a moment, Tony might attack Fury. But the moment passed and the inventor took a deep breath, the fingers of his free hand drumming against his thigh, flexing his jaw, he turned his gaze at Fury one last time, his mouth taught line, his usually warm eyes were hard, and he seemed to be physically controlling himself from either yelling or just punching Fury. Which was a surprising feat for Tony to begin with, Steve considered, as he watched his fellow Avenger's neck tendons tighten and flex as he stared at Fury, and finally he spoke,

"If you get any updates on the mission, you know where to reach me." And he was walked out of the room, phone already out of his pocket, and up to his ear.

Turning his focus from Tony's receding form, Steve watched silently as Fury gathered his folders from the table with a sigh, the Captain still wrapping his mind around Rumlow being alive, and Tony's strange response to Agent Parker's assignment.

"Who is she?" Steve finally asked.

Fury stopped, the folders under his arm, a scowl twisted his lips as he considered his next words.

"Not too long after Tony agreed to join me, us, with the Avengers initiative, I found a few other exceptional individuals. Unfortunately, not all of them were qualified…ready for this type of work. Some just didn't work well with others."

"And this girl?" Steve questioned.

"Charlie joined us not too long after and yourself. She had potential, exceptional abilities, but she was barely eighteen at the time. Not ready to save the world, much less fight for it."

Fury paused, like he was searching for words, but Steve's patience was running thin, crossing his arms, Captain Rogers pressed on with his interrogation.

"That's all very interesting but what does this have to do with Tony or Rumlow?"

"Tony was like…a mentor, hard to call him even that, he had his own responsibilities, he was there when it really counted, but he wasn't around much. Especially over the last few years, but…when I sent her to Afghanistan he didn't like that. Thought it was too dangerous. Yelled at me, broke my shit in my own damn office, and I almost had to punch him..." Fury paused, hand on the door to leave, his eye fell on Steve, still leaning against the table. And it was Steve who broke the silence again.

"So he cares for her?"

"I guess you could call it that, he never elaborated much on it, never asked him. But he never agreed with where her career went, where I sent her…and he always let me know. But that was years ago…before New York."

"You said she had abilities, what kind?"

"Enhanced hearing and strength, nothing too abnormal, now days, but she's good at Intel and hand-to-hand combat. She never had much interest in donning a cape. At least, that's what she expressed to me when I offered her a position on _your_ team a couple years back."

Steve bit the inside of his lip and leaned back against the conference table, he was angry with Fury, fuming, especially about secretly employing Rumlow. But this girl, what was her mission? He had a nagging feeling that it was related to his own personal public enemy number one. Another image of the dark haired man with the smirking sneer flashed through his mind, his blood began to boil. For a moment, Rogers closed his mind, he knew Fury was still watching him, but he needed to reel himself in. When he opened his eyes he walked over to Fury and stopped a foot away.

"Why is she on Omega team?"

Fury's brow rose, clearly expecting a question pertaining to Rumlow, but answered honestly, well as honestly and clearly as any decent spy could.

"Let's just say she's my eyes, ears, and fist; should it come to that."

Steve narrowed his eyes, he didn't need any more elaboration, he knew her mission.

XXX.

"Fuck." Rumlow murmured, as he haphazardly smacked his night stand, searching blindly for his buzzing phone. After many failed attempts his palm smacked onto it, grasping it roughly he clicked the side of it, shutting off the alarm. He then pulled his arm back under the blanket, head face first into the pillow, his mess of greasy black hair sticking every which way but flat. Groaning, fighting laziness, he sat up, leaning his elbows onto his knees he ran his hands through his hair and yawned.

It was Saturday.

And a full month since his last mission, he grabbed his wallet from the small dingy table, and glanced inside. He was running low on cash. Throwing the weathered wallet back onto the bed he stood and stretched, making his way to the toilet.

The cold water that splashed against his face was jarringly delightful, his consciousness fully swimming to the surface, he ran a haggard hand over his half scared face. The rough lines and patches of once cruely burnt skin ran down the left side of his face and flecks of scars ghosted over the bridge of his nose, and deeply split his lower lip.

Brock leaned onto the counter, closer to the mirror, letting his dark eyes inspect the daily reminder of his deepest failure as a man and solider. The image of the heli-carrier failing toward the building, the sounds of crushing metal, cracking concrete, and exploding fire flashed through his mind. His grip tightened on the counter and he flinched, grinding his teeth, his eyes clenched shut. Catching himself against the counter, he braced himself for another intense memory, the feeling of fire enveloping his body, the crushing weight of a half a billion dollar building descended upon him. The memories would come unwarranted and fast, like a crashing wave, trying to pull him under.

When he opened his eyes again he was sitting against the counter. At some point he'd slid down. Breathing heavily he furrowed his brows and attempted to focus on something else, anything else, anything but Washington.

"Breathe." He wheezed out loud, his right hand fisted against his chest, against the frenzied pounding of his heart. He clenched his teeth and pushed a rough breathe through and ran his hands through his greasy mess of black hair, a nervous tick.

"Fuck.." he whispered. He closed his eyes again and let his mind drift.

Moments passed, his breathing slowed, and slowly his brown eyes, so dark they looked black, opened, half lidded he felt his face relax as his breathing slowed.

He hadn't thought about Agent Knox in weeks.

But the memory of her sneering, mocking grin as she slammed the med bay door a month ago flashed in his mind, and suddenly, Washington was light years away.

Before Brock could consider this realization anymore he distantly heard the buzzing of his work phone on the other side of his apartment.

"About damn time."

XXX.

Director Fury stood beneath the gently failing flecks of snow. He knew the girl was hiding in the bushes to the right, no matter how quiet she thought she was, she wasn't. Sighing with the patience he was unaware he contained; he finally broke the pensive silence.

"Charlie," he said, and turned directly to her hiding spot and walked slowly over. Kneeling down he looked into the bushes, though he could not see her, he could hear her anxious breathing, then he continued, "Now that I have your full attention, My name is Director Nick Fury, and I want to offer you a position on an elite team called The Avengers."

For a moment, only the sound of her breathing could be heard, and the cracks of boots on stiff snow and twigs in the distance as Fury's men got closer. And as Fury almost stood to give up on the tiresome young woman, he heard her speak for the first time.

"What is the Avengers?"

Director Fury smiled, staring into the dark bushes, where the young woman he could hear but not see hid, and answered,

"Your future, Miss Parker, should you be so motivated to take it."

XXX.


	4. Chapter 4

_5 Years ago…_

" _What is the 'Avengers'?"_

 _Director Fury smiled, staring into the dark bushes, where the young woman he could hear but not see hid, and answered,_

" _Your future, Miss Parker, should you be so motivated to take it."_

x.

Present Day

Charlie leaned against the glass wall of the elevator, arms crossed, absently blowing an errant strand of blonde hair from her face. Sighing she let her hand fall against the loose braid that laid against her right shoulder, fingers lightly playing with the plates of hair, as she waited for the elevator to descend to the gym level. This was an action she often found her hands falling into unwillingly, perhaps it was a nervous habit, she didn't think too much on these small eccentricities. She knew her mind far too much, if she began to dwell on these small little things about herself, she knew it would never end. She would only find more reasons why she hated herself.

It was a Monday morning; therefore it was exceedingly dull, as the past few Mondays before it had been. Initially, Charlie had found herself excited at the prospect of a new mission, that was until she realized the new 'mission' had really just been mandatory shift and training work at the domestic base that resided right outside Los Angeles.

Charlie was particularly aware of the glances, the looks that the men and women in suits, cast at her, as they stopped onto and off the elevator. It was strange that no matter how many times she rode the elevator, she never saw the same face twice. The building was as vast as it had employees. She supposed that the glances, flicks of eyes, and the twisting, dips of judgment painted lips on the elevator rides should have bothered her, but if she could find more reasons than could fit on two hands to hate herself, why couldn't any stranger do the same?

In reality, her tactical gear, all black, and combat boots; Screaming danger and covert, gave away her role in S.H.I.E.L.D, she was a paid killer. Straight and simple, she was no Avenger.

Tony Stark may have cleaned up Stark Industries but S.H.I.E.L.D would always have skeletons in their closet, red in a ledger that could never be erased, because to save the world, to keep the peace, sacrifices had to be made, and that's who she was for this organization. Not everyone wore a cape.

Dipped in Blood, Gunshot residue, and dirt; Charlie Parker deserved the glances and sneers of her S.H.I. counterparts, hell, if she was one of them she'd turn her nose up or cut her eyes in disgust as well.

After the usual, self-depreciating, Monday elevator ride, Charlie exited the elevator alone onto the training floor. Located on the basement level, it was unnaturally cold, the air smelled stale or on a particularly busy day, like feet, today it was like feet. Cringing, Charlie pulled her phone from her pocket, attempting to distract herself from the nose wrinkling stench, she opened Instagram. Her account was a shell account, her username a series of numbers and completely impersonal, but at least she could follow her friends from her old life covertly. Speaking of, the bright faces of Jackie and Christina flashed beneath her thumb, memories of stealing liquor from their parents' cabinets, five finger discounts at the corner store, and talking about how cute Tommy from fourth period Biology came to mind, and as if the day wasn't already worse, her heart felt like I dropped ten feet. Sighing deeply, she quickly closed the app and shoved the phone back into a pocket. Her boots echoed against the title as she walked down the nondescript hallway, the sounds of punching bags swinging, weights lifting, and voices talking; filtered closer as she made her way to the black double doors at the end of the hall.

" _That's it, I know I won't be the first to say this,"_ she thought, viciously, as she pushed through the doors and made her way over to a large expanse of workout maps across the massive gym. " _And I'm sure I won't be the last but Mondays can really just suck a hard one."_

XXX.

"Parker," Charlie looked up from her downward stretch on the mat, a dark shadow now covering her, she narrowed her green eyes as they settled on the figure above her, as non-other than Sergeant Brock Rumlow, she glared.

Over the last few weeks, Charlie had seen more of Rumlow than she'd ever wanted. Those sneering grins and dark, unsettling eyes had haunted her on more nights than she cared to admit. Although Charlie conceded that her interactions with Rumlow were, in part, her own fault as she did agree to take this mission from Director Fury. But she doubted that she could have refused the mission either. Her mission was simple: Watch Brock Rumlow. Should she need to take action against him, should he be a double agent, report it, and then make the action to stop him – by whatever means necessary.

The sweat on Rumlow's face gave him an eerie sheen; darkened spots of sweat splotched his otherwise plain grey shirt and his usually precisely slicked back hair was a greasy tousled mess. And inwardly, Charlie swore that if a drop of his disgusting, nasty sweat fell on her, mission be damned, she was going to drop kick him. Because she was beyond pointing out his inappropriate proximity at his point, it just made her seem whiney which she wasn't, and it was obviously, a waste of her breath at this point.

"Either spit it out or take a picture, it lasts longer, and _this_ shit," she motioned at his proximity, "is annoying, so fuck off or speak up, Rumlow."

Rumlow laughed and ran a hand through his black hair as he momentarily glanced across the gym, he looked back down at Charlie, he simply raised a perturbed brow.

"Calm down, Parker, Just wanted to know if you wanted to grab some lunch."

Charlie blinked a couple of times as the statement set in.

Rumlow wanted to have lunch with her? Rumlow, her superior? Rumlow, the brute her slugged her relentlessly in combat training this morning? Rumlow, her mission?

"Hm," she hummed, as she jumped back up and grabbed her gym bag. "I'll pass." She replied flippantly as she began her trek back to the locker room. To her dismay, Rumlow fell into step beside her, she glanced up at him, and he glanced down at her.

"No means no, Rumlow." She deadpanned. He responded by smirking and shoving his hands into his pockets and continued to walk in step with her. Charlie's frustration grew, despite her inherent dislike of the man; she genuinely wanted to remain unbiased towards him, especially if her mission ended poorly. Her mind, often drifted back to the night of their last mission a month ago, the moment at the airport hangar, she'd meant to be intimidating and maybe so had he, but there was a moment when his arms were around her…that made her uncomfortable. Not because she felt intimidated but because she hadn't minded the contact.

Her mouth curved down into a frown as she thought about this realization. She wanted nothing to do with Brock Rumlow. He was a traitor and a killer. She told herself she was different.

XXX.

"Hey, Parker," Rumlow pressed his hand against the locker room door, halting her from opening it, "Look, I don't know what your problem is but let me clarify this," he then pulled his hand from the door and crossed his arms, Charlie huffed but stepped to the side of the doorway to just hear him out and get this over with. "I'm just asking a colleague if she wants to have lunch. You're new to the squad and frankly, the only thing I know about you is that you know how to use a weapon."

He saw her eyebrows flex down and watched as the beginning of a smart response began to form on her tongue, "Maybe that's the way I like to keep i-"

"Look, I'm not asking for a life story. I just need to know more than a random stranger who looks at you for five seconds. You don't talk to anyone on Beta, and communication is important. Life or death important, okay?"

Rumlow watched her face as her lips quirked to the side as she bit the inside of her mouth, eyebrows furrowed in thought, as she let his words sink in. He swallowed, despite himself, he inexplicably felt anxious, and he hated it, especially the unbidden roaring of his own heart in his ears.

XXX.

"Okay, that's fine." Charlie said finally, hiking the strap back up on her shoulder, his reason was valid. Quietly, she did acknowledge to herself that she was embarrassed by how she had been treating him. But he was ex-H.Y.D.R.A, presumably, and she'd been on guard. Although, she was technically, not supposed to know this, swallowing her pride, she decided she should chill it with the hard-ass routine. Perhaps…she considered, perhaps it would be beneficial to the mission to communicate more with him. She was uncertain about the extent to which she should allow this. She needed to remain impartial towards him and it would make her life easier in the long run, she knew this. And she also knew if she wanted to avoid another moment like the one on the hangar then distance was key. But the key to being an efficient agent was learning to balance the lie, the mission, and herself.

"Alright, I'll meet you by the elevator in ten, Rumlow."

XXX.

"What did you do?" Charlie asked incredulously, as she took another bite of her tuna fish sandwich. Rumlow set down his water and laughed, leaning across the table, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, "Well, I put on the dress, of course."

Charlie's eyebrows rose and despite herself she was genuinely enjoying herself right now. She took a sip of her water and said, "How does that even work? Did you at least have a hat?" Charlie found it incredibly difficult to believe anyone could confuse the man before her as a woman.

Rumlow snorted and leaned back in his chair giving her a bemused glance, "Of course, what do you take me for, a novice?"

"Well, not as an accomplished cross dresser…" she murmured. At this Rumlow, leaned back across the small table, elbows slammed roughly against it, as he laughed, "Whoa, now I never said that, it was simply life or death, kid." He stated, motioning his hand precisely to imply the singularity of this event. Charlie just smirked and looked back down at her sandwich to take a bite, when she looked back up, she paused chewing ever so slightly, she'd never noticed…but his eyes were actually a light brown. It must've been the angle, the lighting in the room, or the fact it had been nighttime before…but Rumlow had brown eyes. Charlie coughed and looked back down at her food.

This is ridiculous she thought as she took another sip of her drink.

"Well, I can't say I've ever had to…what?" She stopped talking when she noticed he was no longer looking at her. Rumlow's jaw was tense and all traces of laughter were gone from his face as his gaze was focused intently on something behind Charlie.

Naturally, Charlie turned around.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

Captain America and Tony Stark were walking out of the elevator across the main lobby of the S.H.I.E.L.D base.

 _Tony Stark…._ _Mr. Stark_ , Charlie thought, she knew that coming back and working with S.H.I.E.L.D, she would run into him eventually, but imaging something and actually experiencing it were so different. For a moment, she felt like that kid she'd been before, before the extended mission in the east, before all the terrible things she'd seen and done…

Mr. Stark looked exactly the same as he had five years ago. And for just a moment, Brock Rumlow was gone, everything had reverted, and she felt like that confused, moon-eyed, young woman who'd met Tony Stark for the first time.

She turned around, biting her bottom lip, her anxiety peeking through her mask, and she glanced back at Rumlow. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts and she gathered this was probably the first time he'd seen Captain Steve Rogers since the incident with H.Y.D.R.A. Absent-mindedly, his hand rubbed against his disfigured cheek, and she wondered if he was remembering the incident that had almost killed him and had left him permanently disfigured.

Turning her mind from Tony Stark completely, choosing to focus on something else, something that didn't inexplicably make her heart hurt in ten different ways, and Rumlow was just that something.

"So," She said, shifting her face back into the casual bemusement that had been present just moments before, "Want to hit the mats and work on some take downs?"

Rumlow's brown eyes flicked from the space behind Charlie, resting on her face again, something shifted on that strange face of his and Charlie couldn't quite place what it was, but he seemed less monstrous in this moment than he had in interaction she'd shared with him before. The side's of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, he looked back down at the table, his hand played with a straw wrapper.

Unconsciously, Charlie leaned forward and tilted her head sideways, uncomfortable at this foreign vulnerability in the man in front of her.

"Agent Rumlow?" Charlie pressed; her eyes fell to the hand across from her that fiddled with the straw wrapper. She considered stilling it with her own. She didn't.

After a moment Rumlow looked up, biting his lip he stared at the woman across from him, and Charlie averted her eyes, and leaned back into her chair, half glaring in uncertainty. The past lunch hour had been an eerily strange series of interactions with Rumlow. Her green eyes flicked back up from the tile, and immediately met Rumlow's warm brown eyes and she felt this pressure hit her chest, like she needed to run, and she was speechless.

"Sure."

Charlie jumped slightly and looked up, Rumlow was standing and pushing the chair into the small table, he looked back down at her, a dark brow quirked in amusement,

"You coming?"

Charlie jumped up and half threw the chair into the table, slinging the gym bag back over her shoulder.

"Sorry, can't. I forgot I have something I got to take care of…" she stated, as she turned and stalked out of the lobby and towards the exit from the base.

XXX.

Rumlow watched her walk away, again.

Sighing, he squeezed the strap of the gym bag in his hand; his gaze fell back down at the floor. His eyes scanned over his scuffed boots, the discolored grout between the white tiles, while strands of black hair fell into his eyes, and as much as he'd like to dwell on the fact that Charlie had walked away again…

His mind kept going back to the other blonde he'd seen across the room.

 _Rogers_ , he thought.

His grip tightened, he knew it would be inevitable, that he'd run into Rogers again, but his blood was boiling. And this phantom pain pulsed under his burned skin and he itched to feel his punches crush the bones in Steve Rogers face.

That revenge he thought he'd buried deep was rising from the dead.

Running a hand roughly through his hair, he heaved a ragged sigh, as his tempered rage burned, barely contained, beneath his skin. He needed to hit something, as much as he wanted it to be a certain Captain, he reined himself in desperately, and used every ounce of self-restraint to return to the basement to destroy a boxing bag instead.

XXX.

Charlie shoved the gym clothes back into her bag as she found her iPhone. She slumped comfortably back into the driver's seat of her Jeep, tossing the back into the empty passenger seat. Glancing up, she noted the traffic was at a complete stand still, not a surprise; she was on the 5 about to hit the interchange that fed back into L.A at rush hour.

Flipping through a series of work emails, Charlie blew a lazy bubble with her pink gum, as she verified hours, caught up on the latest organization news, and checked for her next rent bill. And as she was in the middle of a particularly interesting negative news update about the public opinion of S.H.I.E.L.D, her phone buzzed, the email disappeared and the familiar black screen lit up as an incoming call buzzed the device in her hand.

Charlie frowned at the simple "unknown" sitting at the top of her screen. She considered letting it roll onto voice-mail, but at the third ring she groaned, if it was Fury he would rip her 'a new one' for screening his calls.

"This is Parker." She answered, there was a pause and her first thought was it was some sort of telemarketer, until a voice on the other end answered her.

"Good Afternoon Miss Parker," replied a very posh British voice.

"Who is this?" Charlie asked as her jeep crept forward for the first time in ten minutes.

A car honked in agitation somewhere around her.

"I am F.R.I.D.A.Y, Miss Parker, Mr. Stark's personal A.I."

The sun was bright overhead, the windows to Charlie's Jeep were down, and just seconds ago she'd seen the ripples of heat in the air in front of her…but suddenly she felt frozen.

 _Why is Mr. Stark's A.I calling?_ She thought, frantically, taking a moment to digest the fact that this meant Mr. Stark was trying to get in touch with her. Fortunately, it seemed patience had been a part of F.R.I.D.A.Y's interface, as the phone line remained open but silent as Charlie collected her thoughts.

"Okay, uh…hi, F.R.I.D.A.Y, how can I help you?"

"Thank you, Miss Parker, but it appears Mr. Stark requests you presence at his home, are you available to come by this evening?"

The thought of meeting with Mr. Stark again after all this time made Charlie feel like she was going to explode. She was excited, anxious, nervous, angry, and confused; particularly due to all the emotions she was currently experiencing at the moment. She faltered slightly, "uhh.." she mumbled, racking her fingers through loose blonde hair, no longer bound by her work braid.

"I'm afraid that will not be an acceptable response, Miss Parker."

Charlie laughed _what an odd A.I.,_ she thought, but her smile faltered and her green eyes stared blindly at the congested traffic ahead of her.

"I can't, sorry, tell him I have work."

"I'm sorry Miss Parker; unfortunately, Mr. Stark has programed me to maintain full transparency in regards to the relationship I share with him."

"Sorry?" Charlie asked, confused.

"You do not have work tonight. Thus, I cannot lie. Your schedule states you worked this morning at S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters."

Charlie's eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

"How do you know my schedule?" She demanded.

"I'm very sorry for the intrusion, Miss Parker, but Mr. Stark apprised me of your availability, and I'm afraid he insists upon your presence this evening."

"He insists?" she half yelled, all complex feelings temporarily expelled, she was pissed.

"Yes, I am sorry for the inconvenience, but a car will pick you up from your apartment at that be all, Ma'am?"

Charlie frowned, gripping the steering wheel as she flexed her jaw, she huffed and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, that will be all, F.R.I.D.A.Y, thank you."

"You're very welcome; I look forward to meeting you in person. Good bye."

The line went dead.

Calmly Charlie reached across her car and dramatically dropped the iPhone onto the gym bag, listening obtusely as she heard it slide off and down between the seat and the door, not looking at it, ignoring it for now, she sat fuming silently at the audacity of Tony Stark.

XXX.


End file.
